


The Sand Wolf

by Dawn1000



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blood and Gore, But there'll still be, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Even if it seems that way sometimes, I'm doing my best to be fair, Male-Female Friendship, No Catelyn Bashing, No Smut, Politics, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Self-Insert, but not really, in regards to Ali and Jonas at least, it's an oc-insert there's just not a tag for that, it's just the books baby!, no show bullshit in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn1000/pseuds/Dawn1000
Summary: Ashara Dayne does not give birth to a stillborn child, though her own fate remains the same. Instead, the girl she brings into the world is on her second life, and in her first one, the people all around her are just fictional characters from a book series she read as a teen. As canon draws ever closer, she rides to Winterfell to meet her father and his family. Aliandra Sand is here, and she’s ready to kick ass and take names.*Canon perspectives, with the exception of Jonas*Title may change, because 'The Sand Wolf' sucks, but it's the best I could come up with*Gifted to nickahontas because they are MASTERS at writing soley canon-perspective SIs*Gifted to Widowmaker94 because I absolutely ADORE her fic, 'A Queen's Conquest'*And, last but not least, gifted to HeavyShoegaze becuase their fic, 'Among the Stars', planted the first seeds of this story into my mind.
Relationships: pairings undecided - Relationship
Comments: 40
Kudos: 121
Collections: Foreknowledge





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nickahontas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/gifts), [Widowmaker94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Widowmaker94/gifts), [HeavyShoegaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavyShoegaze/gifts).



> So I'm not really sure when I'll get to updating this, since my muse comes when it comes, but I'll try my hardest to build a consistent schedule. This is also my first work in this fandom, and I need to actually write something instead of fucking planning forever and eventually loosing steam. So this is like semi-winging it. If ya'll have ideas, you can PM me on ff.net or leave them in comments.

Not much was known of Jon’s half-sister, the other bastard of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, but he supposed he was more knowledgeable of her than most. She was almost mythical to him, another child born out of wedlock to their otherwise honorable father, another child who never ceased to infuriate Lady Catelyn Stark, formerly Tully. He knew she was a month and a half or so older than him, and that she was Lady Ashara Dayne’s daughter. When he’d been small, he’d thought that, mayhaps, they had had that in common, that she was his twin, that he’d finally discovered who his mother was. When he’d asked his lord father about it, however, his face had gone cold, and he’d deftly dismantled that hope.

Jon knew that as soon as Father had learned of her existence, he’d tried to bring her to Winterfell. He also knew his request had been swiftly denied by the Daynes, who refused to let go of the only piece they had left of their beloved Lady Ashara. Dorne had been (and still was, everyone knew) seething over the murders of Elia Martell and her children, and her family had been close with Lady Ashara. Should he try to rip her daughter from their dear friend’s kin, House Martell had threatened, Lord Eddard Stark would be met with all the fury of Dorne.

Besides this famous, well known tale, much information was lacking on the topic of Ned Stark’s second bastard. Jon had received letters from her over the years, as had their trueborn siblings, but despite this, she was a distant figure, much preferring the sands of Dorne to the snows of the North. Moreso, Father had never gone down to visit her. Privately, Jon thought it because he did not want to shame his lady wife more than he had already. It was bad enough to bring one of his bastards to Winterfell, but to travel the entire length of the continent to visit the other living reminder of his betrayal would have been a step too far, even for a man who loved his children as much as Ned Stark.

Aliandra was her name, this sister of his, and out of all their siblings, he was the one she wrote to the most. She was preoccupied in Dorne, she claimed, and could not contact their trueborn siblings as much as she wanted to due to Lady Stark’s interference, but she always sent him gifts on his nameday and a letter arrived every other month. It wasn’t much, but for once, Jon felt as if he took precedence over his lord father’s trueborn children, and that made him proud. He had been ashamed initially, of course, over his reaction to the realization, but the warmth in his chest wouldn’t melt away, and his mood had been almost _chipper_ for the rest of the week. 

Aliandra’s letter was actually why he found himself here, in Winterfell’s rookery. The seventh day of the month’s second week (an auspicious date, for those who followed the Faith of the Seven, though Jon thought she did this just irritate Lady Stark) was normally when her messages arrived, and he awaited hers eagerly. Her words were a balm, helping to soothe his hurt over their step-mother’s cold disdain and Sansa’s copying of her and his distance from their trueborn siblings and the fact he would inherit nothing. He found kinship (besides their obvious shared father) with her over their bastardy, admiration for her intelligence and wit, and amusement at her thinly-veiled contempt for their father’s wife. 

As if on cue, a raven with a letter tied to its leg flew into the room. Jon checked the seal and recognized it to be the sigil of House Dayne. Figuring it to be Aliandra’s message, he took it. He paused for a moment, frowning at it, for it was a single roll of parchment, a bit shorter than her usual length. Nevertheless, he began the walk to his own chambers. 

On his way, he ran into Theon and Robb. Theon Greyjoy was an arrogant shit, who’s stupid smirk made you want to punch it off his face. He was Father’s ward after the Greyjoy Rebellion, here in Winterfell to ensure his own sire did not get it in his head to try and make himself a king again. Robb was Jon’s half-brother and the eldest trueborn child of Ned and Catelyn Stark. 

“Jon!” The latter greeted him with a smile. Over his shoulder, Theon’s lip curled. 

“Robb,” Jon murmured. His brother caught sight of the letter in his hand and grinned. 

“Aliandra’s written to you again, then?” 

“Aye.”

Robb clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man,” he said, though they were still not completely out of boyhood, “I’m happy for you, if a bit jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Aye. Our sister hasn’t written me since Mother last saw her message.” Jon winced. 

“I suppose it’s fitting she talks to you most,” Theon said, “After all, only a bastard would want to speak with another bastard.”

Jon’s jaw clenched and his hands twitched. Theon caught the movement and laughed. 

“The bastard is angry. Whatever will I do?” Beside him, Robb’s face darkened. 

“Enough of that, Theon,” he warned.

“Why do you care, Robb?” Theon’s tone was cruel, and Jon braced himself. “He’s only a bastard!”

“And you’re only a hostage!” Jon retorted, “At least I’m _wanted_ here by some! You’re just a prisoner!” The Greyjoy’s features twisted, rage coloring them. He stepped forward, one hand going to the blade not on him. 

“What did you just say to me, bastard?”

“Exactly what I meant.”

 _“Enough!”_ Both of them turned to Robb. The heir of Winterfell was using his best ‘Lord’s Voice’, as they called it, and he scowled, his gaze flicking between the two of them. “Theon, Jon is my brother, you will treat him with respect. Jon, Theon has fostered with us, he’s grown up with us! To use how he got here as a weapon is needlessly cruel.”

A stinging barb was at the tip of Jon’s tongue. He bit down hard. “If I may leave, my lord,” he grunted. Robb nodded. 

All the way down to his rooms, hurt and indignation filled him. Robb had defended Theon better than him just now, and he was his brother! The unfairness drove his breathing ragged. He collapsed into a chair by his bedside and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. One breath, two breaths, three, four. On the fifth, he turned his gaze back to the matter at hand. Unfurling Aliandra’s letter, Jon’s mood only blackened; less than a fourth of the page was filled up. _So you, too, have abandoned me, sister._ His heart lightened, however, as he read the contents of the message. By the end of it, he was grinning from ear to ear like a madman.

_Jonny boy,_

_As you well know, your name day is coming up! Congratulations!_

_Four-and-ten is an important age! If you haven’t died yet, you probably won’t soon! I figured that, in celebration, I’d pay you a visit at Winterfell! Hopefully I’ll make it in time._

_The most amazing, awe-inspiring sister ever,_

_Aliandra_


	2. Eddard

Ned Stark was not a man prone to fits of anger, nor was he a man who held a child’s birth against them. That being said, he clenched and unclenched his fists and then rubbed at his temples as he surveyed the letter set before him. The letter from Aliandra. 

Aliandra Sand was his greatest shame, though he loved her dearly. Jon, at least, was not truly his bastard, though still his son in every way that mattered. His sister, on the other hand, _was_ a product of his betrayal, for he truly _had_ lain with the Lady Ashara Dayne, Aliandra’s mother, even after he’d been tied to Catelyn. It had been a night full of sorrow and bitter drunkenness, one Ned only remembered through bits and pieces by the time he’d woken the next morning, but the proof of that existed to this day.

When Ned had first learned of his daughter- Ashara’s and his, and how that filled him with both shame and pride, he’d tried to bring her to Winterfell. The Daynes had subsequently refused him, and though he’d been furious then, he had grown grateful for it as time went on; the world was not kind to bastards. Even in the North, where Ned reigned as its Warden and Lord Paramount, Jon was still met with harsh criticism and disdain. And he was not a girl. In Dorne, things were different. The Dornish did not care whether or not a child was born out of wedlock. It was also the most equal region on the continent (and, perhaps, the world) in regards to gender- in Dorne, a first born daughter came before a second born son under the laws of equal primogeniture. Aliandra would be well off there, he had assured himself.

Ned had not laid eyes on his daughter since her second month of life, for a few different reasons. The first one was for the sake of his lady wife. He had not actually done wrong by Catelyn regarding Jon, but Aliandra was another story. He had not wanted to humiliate her further than she thought he already had, especially when this girl child was just cause for her spite. The second was that stepping foot in Dorne was not wise after King Robert Baratheon, his boyhood friend whom he had supported during his rebellion, had laughed approvingly at the deaths of the Ruling Prince of Dorne’s sister along with her children, his niece and nephew, spitting upon them as Dragonspawn. This, combined with his insistence to take Aliandra north, made it unsurprising that Ned, honor aside, was coolly regarded in the late Elia Martell’s homeland, even if the Dornish were not as outright hostile to him as they would be to a Lannister. The third and final factor when deciding whether or not to see his daughter resided in her family and his both. The Tullys were outraged that Ned had betrayed Catelyn not once, but twice, especially so early into their marriage, and the Daynes laid a large part of the blame for Ashara’s suicide on his shoulders. When Ned had arrived with her beloved brother, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, dead upon returning to Starfall, Aliandra had been grievously stricken by a fever. The Maester who served the Daynes had not believed she would survive, and that had shattered her mother. Upon seeing her favorite sibling still, his eyes devoid of any sign of life, Ashara’s pain had become too much to bear, and so she climbed to the top of Palestone Sword, the tallest tower in Starfall and threw herself to the rolling waves below.

“Why should I give up my niece to the man who helped to kill her mother and surely slew her uncle,” Lord Ali Dayne had spat, amethyst eyes blazing with rage and grief, “Even if he _is_ her father? No, _my lord_ , I cannot and I will not. Who knows the kind of danger that will befell her once she is out of my dominions?”

The barb had stung him then and it stung him still. Ned’s jaw tightened at the memory of it. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly, eyes turning upwards to stare at the ceiling. After a few moments, he reread the letter sent from his daughter. 

_To Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell,_

_I write to you today not as a subject in another’s lands, but as a daughter. It has been too long, my lord, since I sent a raven to you last, and this is a fact I bitterly regret with all my heart. I have missed my trueborn brother, Lord Robb’s, name day, but as you read this, I ride to Winterfell to meet you and my family, as well as to celebrate my natural brother, Jon Snow’s own coming into the world. A group of four-and-twenty accompanies me, composed of Dayne and Fowler guards alike, for my dear friend, Ser Jonas, the nephew of Lord Franklyn Fowler and cousin to his daughter, Lady Jeyne Fowler, heiress of Skyreach, journeys with me. You may turn us away at Winterfell’s gates, if it please you, but I travel to your lands nonetheless._

_Your natural daughter,_

_Aliandra Sand of Starfall_

The letter started out politely enough, but there was a hint of defiance in the final words that reminded Ned painfully of Ashara. He put his head in his hands and tried to discern the multiple emotions racing through him. Aliandra was a polarizing figure for him, a person who filled him with love and shame at the thought of her, joy and sorrow alike. Catelyn would not be pleased to hear of her arrival, and it annoyed Ned that she had not asked his permission to visit, but then again, in Dorne, a bastard _could_ simply show up to catch sight of a parent. The hierarchy there was not so rigid, and so he would forgive her thoughtlessness this once. He could scarcely turn her away, not after she had travelled so far, and in truth, a part of him did not want to. A part of him wanted to see this daughter he had never gotten the chance to meet. 

Catelyn would spit blood, but at the end of the day, she would obey this if he commanded it. Jon would be overjoyed, for of all Ned’s children, he was the one closest to Aliandra. Robb and his brothers might be pleased to meet this sister they had so little correspondence with, and little Arya would be beyond excited- she had worshipped Aliandra ever since her sister had gifted her a wooden sword for her name day two years passed. It had, of course, been swiftly confiscated by Catelyn, who had been near apoplectic with rage. The word of her fury must have carried to Aliandra, because she sent a quick note of apology (to Ned, not to Cat), and went on only to write Arya through notes smuggled in Robb’s letters. The only one of his children he could see posing an issue would be Sansa, who had begun to emulate her mother and distance herself from Jon, calling him half-brother instead of brother and looking down her nose at him whenever he appeared. 

The thought that Cat had so thoroughly poisoned one of their children against his son infuriated him, but to her, Jon was a constant symbol of his infidelity, of his betrayal. Ned would ensure none of his other children would be swayed by her rhetoric, but he would not punish his wife for this so long as it was the only occasion. For a moment, he wondered how the people of the North, and, more immediately, of Winterfell, would react to Aliandra, this daughter of their lord who was so completely different, being Dornish born and Dornish raised. He supposed he would have to wait and see. 

_I will tell them at supper,_ he thought, his decision made. _I will tell them at supper that their sister, not their half-sister, nor their bastard-sister, nor their natural-sister, rides north to meet them, and they will be pleased._

Even as he prepared for his last meal, doubt lingered at the back of his mind and apprehension sank like a stone at the pit of his stomach. _Let this go well,_ he prayed, _let this go well._

* * *

That night, Ned had the cooks prepare a better meal than average. The food set out for them at supper was roasted deer, smoked in the ovens, honeyed chicken, salads of spinach, lettuce, apple slices, and carrots, and, lastly, lemon cakes. Sansa laughed delightedly when she caught sight of the last food, moving up as if to hug him before her mother sent her a reproving look. Ned had arranged things so Theon was dining privately. In addition, there would be no household staff joining them this night- such a thing as delicate as a discussion about Aliandra paying them a visit should not be witnessed by anyone other than family.

“Oh, thank you, Father!” she said. Ned smiled indulgently. 

“Make sure to eat actual food first.”

“Yes, Father!”

He braced himself before clearing his throat. “There is news I have received recently that I think you all is something you all should know.” Out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw Jon perk up. Robb straightened in his own chair, obviously sensing the seriousness of his tone and the entire atmosphere of the room changed as Sansa, Arya, and even Bran and Rickon took note of his ‘Lord’s Voice.’ Catelyn stiffened beside him, her eyes already narrowed with suspicion. 

“I have received word from Aliandra,” Ned said, “That she will be arriving at Winterfell some time in the next month. As my daughter, she will be given accommodation here. I expect you will all be courteous upon her arrival.” The Lord of Winterfell watched his family closely, taking in their reactions one by one. Jon looked excited but not surprised, his grey eyes wide, lips twitching upwards. Ned recalled Aliandra normally sent letters to him around this time. _She must have told him herself._

Robb looked pleased at the notion of finally meeting his sister face to face, but his brow was furrowed, and his eyes flicked between his father and his mother often. 

Bran and Rickon did not have much of a reaction to the news, but Arya beamed. Ned wished he could say her sister had that same reaction, but it was not to be. Sansa’s nose was screwed up and wrinkled, and her eyes flashed to her mother for approval. That drew his gaze to Catelyn. He despaired in what he saw; his wife displayed no rage, no pain, not even disappointment. Instead, her face was an emotionless mask. Her Tully-blue eyes were unreadable, her mouth was drawn into a thin line, and her hands were folded in her lap. 

“I tire, my lord,” she said, “And suddenly I am not very hungry. I would ask you of your leave to retire to my chambers.” Ned hesitated. 

“Go,” he said a long second later, “But know this discussion will continue after supper.” Catelyn curtsied gracefully, coldly, and swept out of the room, her skirts swirling behind her.

Supper was a quiet affair after that, the mood grim. The younger children all knew something had angered their mother, though they did not know what, and the ones who were old enough to understand glanced nervously at him throughout the remainder of the evening. Once supper was finished, Ned made his way to his chambers, braced himself, and opened the door.

* * *

“How could you, Ned?” was the first thing Cat said. All the emotions she had been hiding from the children came pouring out, all her pain and anger, and accusation. “How could you bring another one of your bastard’s here?”

“She’s my daughter, Cat, and I’ve kept my distance from her for your sake. But now she is on her way to me, and I cannot _reject_ her for _wanting to meet her family.”_

His wife laughed bitterly. “You’ve kept your distance for my sake? Where was that policy when her mother spread her legs for you?” 

Ned’s temper flared. “Be careful, Cat, of what you say about the mother of my child,” he warned. She stared at him, incredulous. 

“You love her. Still, after all these years, after she is long dead and rotting somewhere at the bottom of the sea, you love her.” Ned froze. Catelyn’s eyes filled with tears. “Is there even room in your heart left for me?”

“Of course there is!” he protested. “You are my wife, my love, the mother of three of my sons and two of my daughters!”

“If you loved me, you would not allow that girl here! Jon Snow was bad enough, and his mother was not even high born! She was some lowborn wench who you lusted after! But this girl, I hear she is Ashara’s mirror image. This girl was born of love and desire both, of resentment towards me for stopping you from marrying her mother!”

“Ashara is long dead, by your own admission. I loved her with all my heart, that is true, but time went on and I grew to build that with you as well. Do not be envious of ghosts, my lady, or you will spend all your life resentful of those already gone. And how can I claim to be a good father if I turn away a daughter I have not seen since she was a babe? How can I be proud of my children when I know there is one who came to see me, who I turned away?”

“Ned-”

“Cat, I listen to you in most everything, but this decision is final.”

* * *

Catelyn was furious with him, Ned knew. She slept at the very edge of their bed and did not seek him out unless she had to. When she _did_ speak with him, her words were short and clipped, her tone frosty. Ned knew this was largely his fault, and he understood her perspective, but that did not stop his patience from waring thin. 

His lady wife could hardly be asked to plan the greeting for her husband’s own bastard, so Ned turned to his steward, Veyon Poole, for the organization of everything. Word had reached Winterfell a few days ago that Aliandra and her company had stopped in White Harbor for rest after their taxing journey. They would be upon Winterfell in a week and a half’s time at most. 

Lord Veyon had arranged it so that they would stop at Castle Cerwyn before setting off to the ancestral seat of the Starks. There, he said, they could send another raven and times would not be misconstrued so they would be greeted properly. 

Said raven had come, and that was how Ned found himself riding a few miles outside the gates of Winterfell. The snow was light on the ground, thankfully, and it hadn’t stuck, so the Dornish would not be too jarred right away, he hoped. The area was being patrolled by guards as they spoke. To Ned’s right rode Robb, to his left, Jon. He had planned on allowing the latter with him anyways, though his heir had been a surprise. Catelyn had been furious when she’d seen their son readying his horse. 

“What will the people of the North think of their future lord when they see him riding out to meet a baseborn girl?” she had hissed. 

“They’ll think of how caring a brother he is, to welcome his sister who has travelled so far to meet him,” Robb had retorted. Fierce pride filled Ned as he relived the moment. His son was growing into a man, and a good one at that. 

A shout of greeting rang through the clearing, and he turned. His heart jumped when he saw two banners flying; one was a sword crossed over a falling star on a purple field, the sigil of House Dayne. The other was a falcon with its head covered by a basket on a blue field, the sigil of House Fowler. At the forefront of the group which approached them, two riders raced. Ned knew who they were even before they drew closer and dismounted. 

The first one, a sandy-haired boy, possessed green-blue eyes and high cheekbones as well as a straight, rigid nose. He was dressed in a white shirt under a blue doublet, the colors of his house, and a grey fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His breeches were grey as well, and he slid off his horse with an easy, practiced grace. He could be no other than Ser Jonas Fowler.

The second one, the girl, looked achingly familiar. It was like seeing a ghost, Ned thought distantly as he stared. For a brief moment, the person before him was not the daughter, but the mother. She had the thick curls the Dornish were known for, a river of ink tied back that reached her shoulders. She was not particularly tall, but not as short as some of her Salty-Dornish and Sandy-Dornish countrymen either, though she shared their lean builds. The girl’s cheekbones were high like her companion’s, a trait most highborns had in common, and an average sized, upturned nose, slightly crooked from a possible break, rested above a full mouth. Her eyes, set below waggling eyebrows (she was snickering at something the Fowler boy had just muttered) the same color as her hair, were warm and laughing as she dismounted with just as much ease as her companion, and in them, Ned saw the only feature they shared. Whereas her left iris was the amethyst of her mother and uncles, her right was his, Stark grey. She was dressed down in black breeches and a black shirt poked out beneath her purple cloak slashed with white. A thin, light looking sword rested at her hip and she walked in knee high boots with metal studs at the toes.

“My Lord,” Aliandra Sand smiled, “It gladdens me to finally meet you.”


	3. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ali arrives to Winterfell, and she and Jon have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the last one, but I hope you still like it. We have a bit of sibling interaction here between Jon and Ali. Please, give me your honest opinions on how it went. Any and all feedback is welcomed. Was it too rushed? Was it too sudden? Was it realistic? Did it go smoothly?

The first thing he noticed about his sister once he got past his nervous excitement was, besides the obvious fact she got her looks from her mother, the thick, Dornish drawl she spoke with. It was rhythmic and relaxed, fitting the smile on her face and the looseness of her posture. She did not look at him once, her gaze only trained on their father, and he stamped down on the hurt which welled up inside him. This was her first time meeting any of them, he reminded himself, and it made sense her desire to meet her father would be greater than her desire to meet a brother, of which she had many.

“Lady Aliandra,” their father said, “We welcome you to the North, and to Winterfell.”

Awkward silence reigned for a moment before the boy beside her stepped forward. 

“Lord Stark,” he said in the same accent as Jon’s sister, “I am Ser Jonas Fowler. I have known Lady Aliandra since we were children, and it is an honor to accompany her to the seat of her ancestors.” His words were polite, but his eyes were cold. Jon would have thought more about that, but he was still fixated on his title. 

_He’s a knight? He can’t be much older than seven-and-ten!_

“Aliandra informed me of your presence in her letter. Thank you, Ser, for ensuring my daughter’s safety,” Father said. “To my right is my heir, Robb. To my left is my natural son, Jon Snow.”

Jon tensed as the weight of twenty-four different pairs of eyes swiveled towards him. He resisted the urge to duck his head and instead lifted his chin. His sister’s expression went from politely pleased to curious. She strode up to him and he hurried to dismount from his horse. Aliandra extended her hand and placed it against his cheek. She peered at him, eyes narrowed, as if she was looking for something. He shifted uncomfortably. She scanned every inch of his face, gaze flicking from his nose to his eyes to his brow to his chin, before she laughed. 

“Seven hells,” she said, “You really _do_ look a Stark through and through.” His chest puffed with pride at that and he grinned, but before he could respond, she was already whirling on her heels to greet Robb.

“My lady,” their brother said. 

“The word of mouth was right this time,” she replied, “You _are_ a looker! Well, at least for your age. I would ask you to share some of those familial looks with me, but considering just who you got them from, I don’t think that’d be possible.” She shrugged nonchalantly. Robb’s mouth fell open and Jon choked. He dared not look over to see their father’s reaction.

“Ali, you’re overwhelming them,” Ser Jonas said. 

_Ali?_

“Joe-Jonas, don’t be such a stick in the mud,” Aliandra waggled her finger. Then she scowled. “Damn you! Look at what you’ve done! I was planning on using the Joe-Jonas line when I saw Sansa!”

 _What?_ Jon looked between the two of them, trying to find some kind of explanation, but his sister broke out into laughter again and Ser Jonas said, “I wasn’t reprimanding you; it was a complement.” _Is that some kind of Dornish jape?_

Jory Cassel, the captain of the Starks’ household guard, cleared his throat. “Mayhaps we should start for Winterfell,” he suggested. 

“A good idea, Jory,” Father nodded. 

Aliandra turned back to her horse and Ser Jonas helped her remount it. As he did so, he grunted. “You’re getting heavy,” he said once he had gotten atop his own steed. Jon bristled at the insult on his sister’s behalf. 

“No one told you to help me,” she snapped back. He raised one sandy eyebrow at the words and kicked his heels into his mount. 

“What kind of knight would I be if I didn’t offer a lady a helping hand?”

“Bold of you to assume I needed it,” Aliandra snorted, “And don’t even pretend to be chivalrous. We all know you are not.”

“How you wound me, my dear Ali!” Ser Jonas threw his head back and laughed.

Jon looked to Robb, feeling helpless and out of place as they bickered. Seeing similar discomfort on his brother’s face, he turned to their father. Ned Stark did not seem to share his sons’ reactions. He simply _looked_ upon his natural daughter, eyes wide and distant, a sad smile painted across his features. 

“Brothers,” Aliandra chirped. Both he and Robb turned to look at her. “When we get to Winterfell, give me a day’s rest. After that, we simply _must_ go to the yards! I want to see how good you are!”

“I am sure that, knight or no, we will show well against Ser Jonas,” Robb said. 

A look of confusion came over their sister before understanding dawned and her face cleared. “Nonsense,” she smiled, but the expression was all teeth, sharp and biting, “I want to compare you to _myself_!”

“Well whatever you get up to,” Ser Jonas grumbled, his cheeks tinged pink with cold, “I hope we arrive soon. It’s bloody _freezing_.”

And so that was how they rode back to Winterfell, the Dornish party keeping to themselves as Aliandra and Ser Jonas bickered while somehow managing to include the Stark party into their conversations.

* * *

As they passed through the gates of Winterfell, Aliandra sucked in a harsh breath. Jon glanced at her. Her eyes were blown wide and her mouth had dropped open. “The descriptions from the books were nothing compared to this,” she breathed. Jon smirked, pride bubbling up within him.   
Winterfell truly was a sight. It was a castle not designed for elegance, but it achieved it anyways with its grey stone and granite and timber standing out against the pure white snow. Its outer walls were a hundred feet tall, a wide moat of dark water between them. Guards manned their turrets, dressed down in the white-and-grey uniforms of Stark men and the inner walls had more than thirty watchtowers built into them. The real towers went up and up and up until they touched the clouds. The main gatehouse had a drawbridge, which led to a bustling town within the stronghold, people moving this way and that as they went about their day. Its scale and efficiency made it the pride of the North.

“It’s beautiful,” Ser Jonas agreed. He had stopped bickering with Aliandra when they arrived, assumedly exhausted with exchanging stinging barbs. Now he rode close to her, awe written across his face.

Jon’s father dismounted first and told him to show their guests around Winterfell. Robb looked a bit put-out, almost as if he had wanted to be given the task, but he made no complaint. 

“We have brought gifts, my lord,” Aliandra said, and she pointed to a mule at their center. It had no rider, but it carried many satchels and a few small boxes. “Where should we put them?” Ned Stark paused and rubbed his chin. 

“For now, servants will carry them to a storage room. You can send them when you are ready to give them.” Jon’s sister nodded in assent and their father walked off.

“Shall we begin our tour?” Jon offered. Ser Jonas stared and Aliandra’s lips twitched. 

“Perhaps in an hour or two, brother,” she said. “Jonas and I have a hunger, and we are cold and tired. Give us some time to rest, and we will be happy to oblige you.” Blood rushed to his cheeks and he bit the inside of his cheek. 

_That was stupid,_ he reprimanded himself. _Get your act together or she’ll think you’re simple._

“In the meantime, will you show us to your hottest rooms?” Ser Jonas asked. His teeth chattered. 

“Yes, of course,” Jon seized the opportunity. He led his sister and her friend to a hallway by the kitchens. It was a quiet area, not well used for the path was more difficult than the main one, but here, they would both stay warm and not disturb the servants. Ser Jonas sighed with relief. He took off his gloves, leather things trimmed with fur, and rubbed his hands together. Next to him, Aliandra followed in suit. 

“Thank you, brother,” she said. “I may have northern blood in me, but I’ve grown up in nothing save the heat of Dorne. The climate here is… the opposite of that, to say the least. Jon nodded in sympathy, not sure of what else to say.

“Here,” Ser Jonas said, taking his sister’s hands in his, “Help me. I think I’ve got frostbite.” 

Jon tensed, unable to see the limbs, but soon relaxed when Aliandra rolled her eyes. 

“You don’t, you idiot,” she teased, but her tone was softer than before, “If you did, your skin would be black and you’d be in a lot more pain.”

Ser Jonas looked down at her suspiciously. “How would you know? You’ve lived in Dorne your whole life.”

A flash of something sparked in Aliandra’s eyes that Jon couldn’t identify. It was gone as swiftly as it appeared. “If you don’t trust me,” she said, “Ask my brother. He’s a northerner, after all.” Ser Jonas turned to him, but he didn’t let go of Aliandra’s hands. In fact, Jon noticed as she shifted with him, their fingers were clasped together, almost intertwined. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“What do you think, Jon Snow?” Ser Jonas said. Jon motioned for him to show his hands. The Dornish knight stepped forward. 

“You’re fine,” he grunted. His irritation mounted as the man thanked him, only to turn back to his sister, a pout upon his lips. That irritation flared up into anger as Aliandra hooked her arm through his and nudged at his shoulder before wrinkling her nose. 

“You stink,” she proclaimed, “Go and take a bath. I want to speak with my brother.” She kissed him on the cheek _-kissed him!-_ and shoved him lightly away. Ser Jonas huffed, but left the room. She turned back to Jon. 

“You seem cross, brother.”

He hesitated. He did not want to anger her, not when they had only just met face to face, not after she had greeted him so warmly. So instead of bringing up her closeness with Ser Jonas, he said, “I’m not cross, simply… surprised. You speak so freely with a knight, and a trueborn one at that. Moreso, you insult him, and not one of your people seems to bat an eye.”

Alaindra sat down against a wall and patted at the space beside her. He slid into place on her right. “Things are… different, in Dorne, as I’m sure you know, Jon. Back home, I have never been scoffed at or ridiculed because of my status. I was raised beside my trueborn cousin and my trueborn aunt, and my lord uncle, who raised me, cherished me just as much as he did his own child. I sat at his table, both in private _and_ when he was entertaining company. I played in the watergardens with lowborn children and highborn children, legitimate children and bastard children alike. What I’m trying to say is… I have grown up in an environment where I am allowed certain liberties, and I have never shied away from them. That is why no one is surprised by my antics.”

Jon shifted. A place where you weren’t hated for your birth seemed so foregin to him. He couldn’t even imagine being able to sit beside Robb and their other siblings when important guests arrived. Something twisted in his chest, sharp and piercing. “But why,” he choked and cursed the burning of his eyes, “Why does no one care? We were born of sin and corruption. Our very existence dishonors our parents. Here, we have to work twice as hard to prove we’re worthy of our very lives. It’s not _fair!”_

Aliandra set her head against his shoulder. He looked down to see her smiling softly at him. “Why should you be ashamed,” she said, “For being born out of passion- do not protest and tell me you are not, for it is plain as day. There is nothing wrong with Robb, of course, but his conception was out of duty. Ours was out of fire. Why should we not celebrate that? Why should we not be proud that we came into the world because of desire, that we came into the world because our father cared about our different mothers enough to lie with them when it was not necessary, and vice versa? In Dorne, we would be celebrated for that.”

Jon blinked and his hands hurt. He looked at them to see he had wrung his fingers tightly together. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. His sister looked upon him sadly. 

“You don’t, not yet, but one day you will. I swear it to you, little brother; one day you will not loathe the way you were born, nor loathe part of yourself by extension.” Then she wavered for a moment, clearly conflicted, before kissing his forehead and wrapping her arms around his waist. They stayed there for a long minute, their shadows flickering on the walls, her holding him as he stared numbly, confusedly, into space, his cheeks suspiciously wet. The moment ended when she pulled away and said, “I should find Jonas and make sure he hasn’t gotten lost. Think about what I’ve said, Jon. Promise me you will.” She waited until he nodded and pressed one last kiss on his cheek before leaving him to his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the last one, but I hope you still like it. We have a bit of sibling interaction here between Jon and Ali. Please, give me your honest opinions on how it went. Any and all feedback is welcomed. Was it too rushed? Was it too sudden? Was it realistic? Did it go smoothly?


	4. Jonas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating sooner guys! I'm getting ready for school again and I've started doing work again (my mom's decision, not mine, believe me), so it's been a bit since I last updated. This is a bit of a filler chapter, so I apologize in advance, but it's important for setting up Jonas' character. On top of that, it sheds a bit of light onto Ali's childhood in Dorne.

The hot water Jonas found himself in was a welcome relief from the frigid cold of the North. Steam rose up and swirled in the air, and he blew out a long breath as he sank deeper into the pool. 

The last few months had been hard; for himself, for Ali, for all of their party, really. Travelling the entire length of a continent had not been easy, and with the trek had come thinned cheeks and hungry nights and sore, aching bodies. Jonas’ own form had drastically changed since they had departed from Dorne. He had never been bulky, but now he was on the wiry side. His arms and legs were tough and sinewy, no trace of whatever fat still left from his younger years remaining. His ribs were not poking out, but if he stretched, their outline was obvious against his skin. His hair, though not the glamorous color of Ali’s, had lost its shine, growing granier and mattier with each day they rode. In short, he did not look like a vagabond, but he hardly looked the part of a lordling. 

Jonas closed his eyes as the water lapped at his skin. It was a great feeling, that of being washed. They had not had the chance to do it in the North, lest they risk the chance of growing ill, and even as they travelled in the warmer regions of Westeros, nothing could compare to this. The warmth of the water sank to his very marrow. Sweat glistened upon his skin, though he could always wash that away later, and his entire body relaxed, uncoiling as a haze of drowsiness swept over him. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Jonas’ eyes flew open, his hand shooting to the dagger hidden amongst the spare clothes he’d brought with him to the pools. He swore as his gaze met a mismatched one.

“Don’t surprise me like that!” he snapped. Ali smiled, but the expression was off, strained, and fury burned behind her eyes. He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“A few different things,” she ran a hand across her face. “I’d rather just take a bath and not get into them right now.” He had a feeling it had to do with Jon Snow or Lady Stark, seeing as how her bastard brother was the last person she had assumedly spoken to, but respected her wishes. Still, something ugly reared up in his chest.

Jonas looked away dutifully as she slipped out of her clothing and placed a fresh pair by the pools. The sound of a gentle splash filled the air and he turned back around. Ali sat a good few feet away from him, submerged up to her collar bone. 

“Your troubles are my troubles,” he said. “If it helps you to entrust them with someone, I’ll always be willing to lend an ear.” She smiled at him again, and it was more genuine this time.

“I know,” she replied. Her eyes swept around the area, looking for something. It dawned on Jonas what that was. 

“Here,” he tossed a bar of soap to her. It wasn’t a good throw, but she propped herself up with one hand and snatched it out of the air with the other. 

“You can do better than that,” she teased. He rolled his eyes.

“I’m drowsy and my skill has always been with a spear, not a bow or a dagger.” She tutted, and he was relieved to see her anger abating. 

“Now, now, what would Nym think? She’d be so disappointed.”

“She’d realize her hours spent on trying to teach us daggers were the best form of weaponry while we were young, impressionable children, was all for nought. Then she’d huff and complain for a few minutes before going back to fucking Jeyne and Jennelyn.”

Ali’s nose wrinkled and her eyebrows drew together. 

“Please stop talking. Nym is like a sister to me and those are your cousins you speak of. I’m sure neither one of us wants to have those images seared into our minds.”

Jonas laughed. “I’d think you a prude,” he japed, “If you weren’t always shamelessly drooling over-” Ali’s glare was enough to shut him up, but his lips still twitched with amusement. 

“How did you get to the pools?” she asked as she began to wash. Her change of the subject was obvious, but Jonas rather disliked having to dodge her when he was tired, so he didn’t bring it up. “Your sense of direction is dismal. It’s a miracle you didn’t get lost.”

Jonas folded his arms behind his head and grinned. “A pretty woman showed me the way,” he winked. Ali hummed approvingly before her features clouded.

“We’re here as guests,” she reminded him. “I won’t deny you your fun, but please, don’t fuck anyone important.”

“Now who has a stick up their ass?”

“I mean it, Jonas.”

There was a beat of silence before he waded up to her. She raised an eyebrow in warning and he stopped, but not before he was in whispering range. 

“Someone like… Lady Stark? I know you think her a bitch, but I’ve always liked a good challenge.”

Instead of disgust at his suggestion, rage twisted her features, confirming Jonas’ suspicions her black mood had to do with her step-mother. An ire like no other ignited in his chest. This hag had convinced her spineless husband to forsake his Ali her entire life. Now that she was finally here, Winterfell’s Lady had already upset her, and they were not even a day in! Ali’s hands curled into fists and her jaw tightened. Whatever relaxation she had been feeling dissipated as she stiffened. Jonas’ own body was riddled with tension.

“That isn’t funny.”

“What did she do to you?” he growled. Her fingers flexed and she ran them through her hair. _“Tell me,”_ his words came out sharp and clipped.

“It’s not what she did to me,” Ali said finally, “It’s what she and everyone else has done to Jon. The poor boy has grown up believing his existence is a very stain upon his father’s precious honor. No child should _ever_ be ashamed of existing! Thank the gods I was raised in Dorne and not the North.” Jonas turned to the side of the pool so he could grip something. His vision flashed red at the thought of Ali being treated the way bastards typically were outside of their homeland.

“That’s horshit,” he snarled. 

Silence. Then-

“Horseshit,” Ali laughed wryly, “Is one thing to call it.” Jonas looked at her and felt shame worm its way through him as the same exhaustion he felt showed on her face. 

“I’m sorry for bringing this up,” he muttered. She leaned back and stared up at the sky.

“It’s alright. I needed to get that out of my system.” 

There was another one of those odd little frases she always seemed to slip into her sentences. They were things she’d been saying since childhood, outlandish metaphors no one seemed to have ever heard of before, but they’d grown up together, and he’d picked them up as well. Even Nym would utter them from time to time, and with her came Jeyne and Jennelyn and the rest of the Sand Snakes. “I've started a vocabularic revolution,” Ali liked to brag, and Jonas and the others would oft roll their eyes and humor her. The memories made him smile and his mood lightened. Ali peered at him through long lashes and chuckled. 

“You’re thinking of my genius, aren’t you?” she teased. He snorted. 

“In your dreams.”

They stayed like that, in comfortable silence, before Jonas’ stomach growled and a pang of hunger struck him. He grimaced. 

“Who’s the steward of Winterfell again?” he asked.

“Vayon Poole.”

He rose from the water, ripples shifting through the pool, and clothed himself. “Yes, well, I’m asking him when we’re having our damned supper. I’m bloody starving.” Ali nodded absently, her eyelids drifting shut, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

“You have a dagger in your clothing, yes?”

“Of course. And should I need it, I’ll use it better than you.”

He ignored the insult in favor of patting her patronizingly on the cheek. Then he set off to find this gods damned Vayon Poole.

* * *

Supper, as it turned out, was a quiet affair. The Dornish party had eaten in private a few hours before the sun began to set, away from the legitimate members of House Stark and their staff. “To ease tensions before Lady Aliandra is acquainted with her family,” Vayon Poole had said. Jonas’ lip curled at the memory.The food had been bland; chicken and vegetable soup with no hint of spices, and though it had been tasteless, their little band had consumed it swiftly. Their moods had been black, furious at the level of hospitality they had received. 

“ _This_ is how the honorable Lord Stark shelters his daughter?” Arron, who was so shy, Arron who was so level headed, had spat. “Cowshit!” The rest of them had roared in agreement before Wensla told them to shut up and eat lest they be skewered by a few cross Northerners. 

“Let them come!” Fells had demanded, his eyes bright with indignation. Wensla slapped him for that, to which Fells responded with a spluttering curse and a thrown goblet, and Ali had had to step in and order them to stop. The tension had lessened then, replaced by cackling amusement, and they had finished their food in haste, wishing one another goodnight before going their own separate ways.

That was how Jonas found himself here, within Ali’s chambers. She sat before in a wooden chair, her hair cascading down her back, a large bucket filled with water set behind her. 

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” he asked warily, twirling his scissors in one hand. 

“For the thousandth time, yes.”

He shrugged out of his doublet and tunic, setting them down on the bed. Ali raised an eyebrow and he crossed his arms over his chest. “They’re quality,” he defended himself. “I don’t want to ruin them by getting hair all over them.” She snorted at that, and told him to strike a lantern. Jonas obeyed her and set it by the desk beside them. He reached over and took a cup from the bucket, filling it up as Ali leaned back before lightly tilting it over. 

“Seven hells, that’s cold,” she cursed. He smirked. “Bastard. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I’m not the bastard here,” he retorted. 

“And the gods know Lord Stark’s people won’t ever let me forget it,” Ali’s tone was light, but it held an undercurrent of bitterness. 

Lord Stark. That was what she always called her sire. Not Papa, not even Father, but Lord Stark. She was so formal, now, but she wanted so desperately to be Eddard Stark’s daughter it hurt Jonas. She had demanded Northern stories when they had still been too young to do much else besides trip and fall and wail, had read all the books she could on Winterfell and the legends of old with the Children of the Forest and the White Walkers and the Wall. She wrote to his children, wrote to him, and had even tolerated the insult he had dealt her by not allowing her to sup with him this night. Why would Ali do such a thing, if not to feel more connected with her Northern heritage? With her father? She had travelled thousands of miles to see the man, and yet he would not even give her the honor of dining with her! Jonas felt his throat tighten with indignation.

“You are stewing, my love,” Ali’s drawl snapped him out of his thoughts. He smiled guiltily and ran his fingers through her curls. 

“Apologies, dear Ali,” he said, unknotting all the places he could as he rubbed tonics across her scalp. “How short do you want the cut?” His friend hummed as she thought. 

“About chin-length,” she decided. Jonas laughed and he glared at him good-naturedly. 

“Nym will be cross. She loves your hair.”

“Well for all her crooning, she rarely helped me manage it.”

“No,” he snorted, “That duty fell upon me. And then after they realized how good I was at it, my darling cousins made me start helping them as well.”

“I know,” Ali said in disbelief, “That you are not complaining about the talent which has helped you charm countless women into your bed.”

Jonas’ protest died in his throat at the unimpressed look she sent his way. Anything he argued would make him look a fool, he decided. “Did you see our little host-in-hiding when we arrived?” He changed the subject. Ali grinned. 

“Obviously. What do you take me for, an oblivious dolt? That’d be my sister, I reckon.”

“Which one, Arya, or Sansa?”

“Arya,” Ali chuckled as he began his work. “Sansa wouldn’t bother going to see her natural sister.”

Jonas grunted, snipping at midnight black tresses. They fell to the floor at his feet, and as he grew closer to her chin, he slowed. “Sit up,” he said, and she straightened. Their conversation fizzled out as he requested silence to focus. Jonas walked until he faced her, then began cutting again. They had draped a worn grey cloak over her, so nothing got on her shift, but he was not so lucky. He grimaced as hair stuck to him.

Time passed on, the room filled with the quiet sound of their breathing and the gentle clipping of the scissors. When it was finally done, Jonas leaned back and presented Ali with a mirror. She took it and he shifted, eying her nervously as her face turned unreadable. Then, she beamed. 

“I love it!” she whooped. He smiled and tipped onto the mattress. 

“I’m sleeping,” he muttered against a pillow. “You can take care of the mess.” He swore to the Gods, he could _hear_ her eyebrow raising. 

“That could cause a bit of a scandal,” Ali noted. 

“Who cares? If anyone even notices, they’ll just say something like, ‘There go the bloody Dornish again. They’ll fuck anything that moves.’” The sound of a broom brushing against the floor reached his ears and his eyes fluttered shut. 

“We break our fast with our hosts tomorrow,” Ali whispered as he drifted off to sleep.

_Oh, fucking hells. I won't be nearly drunk enough for this come morning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you guys feel about chapter lengths so far? I've been trying to hit at least 2.5k per chapter since chapter 2, but I don't want to drag them out too long? Are you guys okay with them now or would you prefer them a bit longer?


	5. Catelyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey guys! It’s been a while since I updated, and I apologize for that. Life’s really gotten ahead of me. I’m trying a new style for this chapter- instead of third person past tense it’s in third person present. Tell me if you like it.

_She is completely and utterly foreign._

That is the first thought to pass through Catelyn’s mind when she sees her husband’s bastard for the first time. Aliandra Sand is not dressed in the furs of her father’s North, but instead in the lighter clothing of her mother’s Dorne. She wears bright yellow trousers _-trousers!-,_ a yellow tunic with an overcoat of the same color slipped above it, and soft brown boots which reach the calf. A long, purple ribbon is sewn over her heart, and it loops around her arm to connect with her shoulder. The sense of her fashion is more flamboyant than anything seen north of the Neck, and it, to Catelyn’s relief, immediately marks her as an outsider. 

The girl doesn’t look like her Ned either. Save for one grey eye, everything, from the shape of her eyes and mouth to the bridge of her nose, to the angle of her face, is all someone else. 

“Lord Stark, Lady Stark.” Aliandra Sand bows. “I thank you for your hospitality.” Her short curls frame her face well as her back dips, and Catelyn sees a flash of the beauty she will become once she is older. Her lips thin. _She is said to look just like Ashara Dayne. Am I staring into the face that stole my husband?_

“My Lady,” she replies stiffly, and her lip curls. The girl is not even that. 

There’s a tense moment where silence settles and then just drags on before Ser Jonas Fowler takes Aliandra’s arm in his and they sit beside Jon Snow. As the nephew of the current Lord Fowler, he is owed more, but it seems he has chosen to stand- or sit, rather- beside his countrywoman. 

“You cut your hair,” Arya blurts. She immediately smacks a hand across her mouth. Catelyn freezes. Her bastard half-sister grins.

“It’s rather eye catching, is it not?” 

The Lady of Winterfell’s mind catches up with her body and her eyes snap to her husband’s bastard. “You’ve met.” It isn’t a question. Her hand curls into a fist beneath the table and her nails bite into her flesh so hard she thinks the skin might break. 

“No, Lady Stark,” Aliandra Sand replies. “I had the pleasure of stumbling across Lady Arya yesterday for a passing moment, nothing more. No introductions were made.” 

At those words, some of the tension in Catelyn’s shoulders eases. Still, she stays on guard. She thanks the gods that Theon Greyjoy is not here this morning. It is gruelling enough to sit here amongst family and indulge in this mummer’s farce- for unlike Jon Snow, Ned has hardly ever reached out to his girl child, much less offered to take her in- but the presence of the sharp tongued ward would have been too much to bear at once. 

“We should eat,” Ned says, and it is not a suggestion but a command. Catelyn looks down at the table before her and feels her stomach tighten. Her eyes, once again, are drawn to the daughter who is not hers. She’s tucking into the food set out before her gracefully, speaking all the while to Ser Jonas, and the Lady of Winterfell realizes that she’s been given a noble education in at least etiquette. She turns to her Arya who is eating more sloppily and feels anger twist in her chest. Her youngest daughter is only a girl of nine and should not be compared to someone five years her elder, but-

But seeing Ashara Dayne’s daughter doing better at something than her own makes Catelyn’s teeth grind together. _This meal,_ she thinks to herself, _is going to be very long._

.

.

.

After less than ten minutes, a pattern of discussion has become evident. Bran, elated to meet a knight from the South, peppers Ser Jonas with question after question and the Dornishman is good-naturedly indulgent with him. Arya reaches out constantly to Aliandra Sand with an interrogation of her own. _Her_ questions consist of, “Will you tell me the story of Nymeria?” and “I saw you had a sword. Is that what you fight with for the most part?” and Catelyn struggles to keep the scowl off her face at the bastard’s encouragement of Arya’s unconventional fascinations. _She will never find a husband that way._

Sansa keeps mostly to her full brothers and sister and her parents, and tries for all she can without being impolite to ignore her father’s bastards. Jon Snow converses with his fellow bastard happily along with Robb. Rickon, who is still so young, focuses mostly on his food and Ned watches the scene unfolding before him quietly, a small smile gracing his face.

“I feel like you know a good amount about us,” says Catelyn’s first born, “But we don’t know all that much about your life in Dorne. Tell us a story.” 

Aliandra Sand frowns in thought. She rests a palm against her cheek. “Once,”

she says, “When Jonas and I were still very young- we must have been four and seven at the oldest- Nym rowed with Obie about whether spears or daggers were better. It became quite an intense thing, and eventually turned physical. Uncle Oberyn had to physically pull them apart. Then they got it into their heads that the best way to prove one another wrong was to train me and Jonas with their preferred weapons. 

Nym is close with the Fowler twins, you see, so she saw their cousin and their cousin’s best friend as her natural disciples after spending so much time at Skyreach. Obie saw it as a chance to kick her legs out from under her. In _their_ minds, I suppose it made perfect sense. 

So that’s how Aunt Ellaria caught little Jonas and little Ali stumbling along with sharp, dangerous weapons gifted to them by Uncle Oberyn’s children, and she was unimpressed. For all she is a sweet tempered lady, her wrath is legendary.

Obie and Nym were… six-and-ten and three-and-ten respectively at the time- they had not been little girls for many years- but in the face of her anger, I think even they were a bit intimidated. After that, their father said that with our uncles’ permission we could be taught, but only when we were around experienced adults to make sure we didn’t impale ourselves.”

Catelyn’s mind races with all the implications of Aliandra Sand being so close to the Martells that she calls one of them “Uncle” and calls his daughters by nicknames. 

The Lady of Winterfell is not prone to paranoia, but in this world, especially after the Blackfyre Rebellions, trueborn children have always been taught to be wary of their bastard siblings. Those warnings have always been aimed towards bastard sons, however. Is it possible that she has misjudged? That the true danger has always been in the South, with the daughter rather than North with the son?

_No._

After a moment, Catelyn realizes she is being foolish. Dorne is too far away to wage war against the North, and even if it wasn’t, the northerners would never accept someone so blatantly southern as their liege, especially not when Ned already has trueborn children.

“So who won?” Bran pipes up. Aliandra Sand grins. 

“Well Jonas here is positively _deadly_ a spear, and I am more of a jack of trades than anything else, so I wager Obie came out on top there.”

“Jack of all trades?”

“Ah- proficient in all things, master of none.”

“Speaking of combat,” Ser Jonas says, “I’ve been told Winterfell’s yards are a good place for a fight. Lord Stark, with your permission, I would like to sparr there while your guest.” 

Ned nods easily. “Of course, Ser Jonas. So long as you adhere to Ser Rodrik Cassel’s- Winterfell’s Master-at-arms’- rules, you are welcomed to fight.”

“We could go there today, if you like,” Robb says, and Ser Jonas grins, a mischief gleaming in his eyes that sets Catelyn on edge. 

“Excellent, my lord! I look forward to it!”

Aliandra Sand takes his arm and whispers something into his ear and he frowns, his face darkening. Then she returns the look and his huckles, features brightening again. 

Catelyn heard the rumors this morning, heard of how he’d entered her rooms at night and had only emerged when she did, and this scene makes her think they were founded. Her lip curls and she looks away quickly. 

_The Sand, it seems, is taking after her mother._

The meal winds down and Catelyn, who has not eaten much, is beginning to regret it. As they all rise from their seats, she bids her guests leave. She has entertained them as a good hostess should, has tolerated the presence of not one Stark bastard today but _two_ , and she has had enough. As politely as she can, she extracts herself from their company.

As she walks away, she can hear Ser Jonas. “To the yards, then,” he’s saying. “To the yards!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that after six months, a 1.5k filler update is not exactly what people are hoping for. And I’m sorry for that guys :(. I tried writing this chapter four different times and in the end, this is what just came out without me wanting to bash my head against a wall, so it’ll have to do for now. Though it was filler, it did include some important tidbits, like Ali’s life in Dorne and certain people she’s connected to. They’ll be more important as the fic progresses.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not really sure when I'll get to updating this, since my muse comes when it comes, but I'll try my hardest to build a consistent schedule. This is also my first work in this fandom, and I need to actually write something instead of fucking planning forever and eventually loosing steam. So this is like semi-winging it. If ya'll have ideas, you can PM me on ff.net or leave them in comments.


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